


Divine

by indraaas



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: 90s babies this one is for you, M/M, based on that one ariana grande clip, happy birthday ice ily, the amount of pop culture references I managed to throw into this astounds me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:34:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28045509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indraaas/pseuds/indraaas
Summary: Truthfully, the blame can fall on anyone.  Him for taking History of Medieval Weaponry at the same time as the tickets were being sold.  Suki for dragging him kicking and screaming to Zukoism hell.  Katara for promising to buy him a ticket and forgetting she had a biochemistry midterm that day.  Zuko for existing.  Scalpers for buying a hundred tickets and selling them at a 400% markup.Basically, fuck capitalism.(alternatively: the tea leaves called it.)
Relationships: Sokka/Zuko (Avatar)
Comments: 42
Kudos: 303





	Divine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [illustraice](https://archiveofourown.org/users/illustraice/gifts).



> I would like to first and foremost say, I haven't watched Avatar in fucking YEARS I truly remember nothing except what I've read in fics so this is going to be a mess and I'm NOT going to apologize for it. Bless the Avatar renaissance I guess. 
> 
> There are so many pop culture references in this. SO many. I'm gonna make it a game. Comment on all the ones you manage to find. I'm CURIOUS. 
> 
> general disclaimer: don't own Avatar, also don't own the song "Walk Through The Fire", you have Joss Whedon to thank for that one, I'm just borrowing it. 
> 
> and now, the most important note of all: happy belated birthday, ice. thank you for so many years of chaos and late night talks and just you for being you. hope you enjoy this as much as I enjoyed the conversation that led to it.

Zuko’s first mistake is drinking milk at three in the morning. 

That it’s three in the morning isn’t relevant – though, depending on who you ask and how well-adjusted they are, that might be the real problem here but it’s 2020 and the concept of ‘well-adjusted people’ is _definitely_ government propaganda. The mistake, then, is drinking milk. At three in the morning.

His earliest memories are this: Azula trying to give him an industrial with a twig at the age of six, Uncle Iroh quizzing him on steep times for black versus green versus white teas, and his mother reciting poetry as they drink milk before bed.

The runner up memory is his vocal coach holding a flute to his throat and making him swear on a copy of _The Metaphysics of Vocals and Performance: Vol 6 Ed 3, 2001_ to never so much as think about a dairy product if he wants to keep his voice box the way it was factory installed by God.

Except Zheng family genes have been perfectly selected for since the first prokaryote vored mitochondria and started the downward spiral to The Current Generation, quoth Ozai, and as such being a contrarian prick is as innate to him as suffering from Chronic Resting Bitch Face is to Mai. 

So, he drinks milk. At three in the morning.

“Zhao’s going to kill you,” Azula says gleefully, sweeping into the kitchen in a flurry of red silk nightgowns and thousand dollar camisoles. 

Zuko pours a second glass and chugs it.

“Your voice is going to crack, Zuzu, and it’s going to go viral on Twitter and not even _I_ can save your reputation after that,” Azula sniffs. It’s a lie and they both know it. Azula’s scary enough that she probably knows a guy who knows a guy who can figure out a way to make the Earth rotate backwards if she was bored enough and wanted to revel in the chaos. Shutting down stan Twitter is just another Tuesday.

Wednesday, whatever.

“I’m not going to perform today,” Zuko announces.

Azula grabs her overnight oats from the fridge. He’s not sure why overnight oats have become such a thing lately but every last one of her influencer friends have been waxing poetic about the stuff on Instagram. No amount of honey, cinnamon, blueberry, banana, and acai (which, also, what the fuck) will ever make up for the fact that it’s _mushy oatmeal_ and therefore fucking disgusting. Zuko’s convinced people like it the same way they do avocados, zoodles, and quinoa, which is, to say, not at all but they say otherwise because it seems like a rich people thing.

“Sorry, I thought I just heard you say you weren’t going to perform today. I must be losing my fucking marbles.”

“I’m not performing today.”

“Dad’s going to kill you.” _And there’s abso-fuckin-lutely nothing I can or will do to stop him because you know what they say about oxygen masks._

Zuko picks up a teacup nearby and holds it out like it contains the bubonic plague in its depths. It certainly feels like he’s caught it; or a close but equally deadly cousin. Just thinking about it makes his stomach lurch, acid bleeding into every vessel in his chest, and he takes another quick sip of milk to hold it at bay.

“Look!” he hisses, putting the cup down between them. “Look at the leaves!”

“For fucks sake, not again.”

“Uncle Iroh-”

“Is a crackpot.”

“It’s an _hourglass,_ Azula,” Zuko says, pointing a shaky finger at the dregs, “ _Imminent danger_.”

Azula’s mouth falls open just a little, sending a frisson of cold fear down his back.

“Oh my god,” she murmurs, leaning closer to examine the leaves with more interest now, running a perfectly manicured nail along the rim of the cup. “Zuko…”

He’s never given much thought to how he would die, but dying in the middle of an underground venue seems like a terrible way to go. Twitter witches will find a way to bring him back to life just so he can endure the memes, the oversaturated fancams set to the slowed and reverbed covers of his sappiest songs, and, more importantly, the roasts. The roasts alone will kill him all over again. Maybe he can convince Azula to do him a solid and bury him alive and wear his entrails like a stole to dinner with the President or something. 

Azula upends the cup and throws it into the sink, where it shatters into a billion pieces. “It’s a bunch of fucking gunk. Look, now they’re lumpy triangles. That one looks like your last brain cell. Get a goddamn grip, Zuzu.”

“But - what _if_ ,” Zuko almost _whines_ except he doesn’t because Zheng’s never whine. They make others whine and sob and scream for mercy as they drain their bank accounts like a vampire straight out of Buffy, but they themselves are above such paltry emotions. Or something like that. He doesn’t pay much attention to the Ozai Lectures.

“Then you die. I release your next album posthumously, sell the movie rights, and bask in your royalties for years to come. Win-win,” Azula says, face eerily gaunt in the harsh light cast by her phone screen. 

Zuko swallows hard. He could just run away. He can’t drive very well but Uber exists for a reason, and it can’t cost that much. Nobody he knows actually uses Uber because _they_ didn’t accidentally drive their cars into a canal during their testing but it’s probably cheaper than insurance payouts. Where will he go? Who fucking knows. He’ll catch a midnight Uber going anyplace.

Prague sounds nice. Belatedly, Zuko realizes he has no idea where Prague _is_. Paris? No, not enough accents. Italy, maybe. 

“‘Zula, where’s Prague?”

“Czech Republic.”

“Oh.” Wisely, he decides against asking where the Czech Republic is. 

“The timeline seems to think you’ll be showing up looking like a prince because of that photoshoot you did last week,” Azula tells him, “You will, in fact, be going as a punk rock wannabe from the 70s.”

“I already picked out my-”

“Leather or spandex?”

“Leather.”

“Spandex it is.”

* * *

Sokka’s first mistake is thinking that scalpers on the usual resale haunts have souls.

Aang’s a philosophy major so he’s heard every take on the concept of a ‘soul’ and ‘goodness’ and whether or not having a soul automatically yeets you into the ‘good guy/potentially redeemable’ camp. Sokka, personally, is of the opinion that souls are proletariat (he doesn’t know what the word means but Aang uses it every other breath so it must have _some_ relevant meaning) lie designed to keep the masses in line, which brings him to his original point: scalpers don’t have souls.

Truthfully, the blame can fall on anyone. Him for taking _History of Medieval Weaponry_ at the same time as the tickets were being sold. Suki for dragging him kicking and screaming to Zukoism hell. Katara for promising to buy him a ticket and forgetting she had a biochemistry midterm that day. Zuko for existing. _Scalpers_ for buying a hundred tickets and selling them at a 400% markup.

Basically, fuck capitalism.

Which leaves him waiting in a line that extends from _Ember Island_ , the grungy hole-in-the-wall Zuko’s performing at, all the way to the _Pleas-uh Give Me The Pizz-uh_ a block away at three in the morning. 

_“If you get there early enough, you can buy a ticket from the place directly!”_ Aang had said excitedly as he offered another wad of tissues to the sobbing Sokka. _“Seriously, I go to these kinds of underground shows all the time, they reserve a couple tickets for on-site sale, but you have to get there early.”_

Apparently, two-thirty in the fucking morning isn’t early _enough_. The twittering girls in front of him are at _least_ six years too young to be out all on their own, especially in this part of town, and the guy behind him looks like he made a wrong turn at an opera hall. Sokka squashes the urge to stand on his tippy-toes and take a gander at how many people are in front of him. Zuko is _so_ not worth creasing his J’s.

“Hey!” the girl in front of him shrieks as he loses his balance and nearly takes her down with him. “Watch it! You could’ve messed up my Zuko sweater!”

“God forbid - wait, is that the limited edition one from his _BuRN_ merch? That cost, like, four things of takeout!”

“If you were a _real_ Zuko fan, you’d give up takeout to afford it,” her friend says fervently, blowing badly dyed purple bangs out of her eyes. 

Sokka doesn’t tell her he resold all his textbooks and parted ways with his PS4 in order to get enough liquid cash on hand for today. Why _Toph_ of all people wanted the PS4 is beyond him, but he assumes she’s going to strip it for parts or trade it for a stenotype or something. 

All this just so he can see Zuko sing live, watch the way the lights bring out the molten fire in his eyes, feel the agony of his lyrics right in front of the man who penned them. See for himself if it hurts the same lost in the crowd as it does alone in his room watching dawn kiss the horizon. 

He _will_ get video of him singing _Walk Through The Fire_ live if it’s the last thing he does. Being able to listen to the acoustic version is going to make his heart ache in ways never before ached by a human and by _god_ is he ready.

First, though, he needs to get past these kids. 

A guy dressed in plastic wrap bumps into him roughly. Sokka yelps and shoves him right back, wholly unprepared for a fight with a Billy Idol wannabe but ready to throw his gloves up anyway. He hopes he’s channeling his Inner Katara and _not_ his Inner Aang at this moment because one will get him killed while the other will do the killing.

“Watch it!” Sokka snaps, “You could’ve pushed me out of line and I’ve been here for almost - actually, _more_ than an hour and then I’d have to go to the back of the line and smell anchovies for another six hours and I don’t even have a fucking ticket ‘cause scalpers-”

“May they rot in hell,” Sweater Girl mutters.

“Amen.” Opera Man nods sagely.

“And if I have to stand on my feet all this while just to drag my ass up to the ticket counter and find out there’s no more tickets and I ‘should’ve come earlier’, then I’m gonna be real mad at you, man!”

Billy Idol blinks owlishly behind his oversized Ray-Bans. “That’s rough, buddy.”

Sokka stuffs his hands inside his pockets, temporarily satisfied that this isn’t going to end in a bloodbath. Katara would have his head if it did. Suki, too. And Toph just ‘cause she wasn’t there to join in.

Realization dawns on him the only way it can on a sleep-deprived student at the unholy hours of the morning: like a hydraulic press on his chest but in slo-mo.

“Hey! Why aren’t you in the back of the line? Are you _butting in line_?” 

The whole line seems to hone in on them at that moment, armed with vinyl records, selfie-sticks, and the feral hivemind of Zukoism and Concert Etiquette, ready to beat the butter to room-temperature cream. Billy Idol blanches, scrambling backwards and narrowly avoiding getting flattened by a moped.

“No! I’m Zu-Zuo-lin! I’m Zuko’s, er, lighting director.”

“Zuko’s lighting director’s name is Jia,” Purple Bangs says, eyes narrowing. 

“No it’s not, it’s Lian. Jia was his lighting director for the Ignite World Tour, but then she got hired by Mai for her drama debut,” Sweater Girl argues. Sokka inches away slowly. He’s lived with Katara his whole life and knows an impending cat-fight when he sees one; has the scar on his back to prove it, too. It tingles when one is about to start.

“Lian went on his honeymoon two weeks ago. Maybe Zuo-lin is a new hire,” Opera Man suggests. Sweater Girl looks at him like he just announced he drank his vaccines instead of injecting them. 

“Uh, no, we would _know_ this by now. Honestly, you call yourself a Zuko stan.”

“Please, you’re one to talk. I know off-brand Zuko merch when I see one, and your sweater does _not_ pass muster.”

A gasp ripples through the crowd. One would think he’d declared her an acolyte (another word Sokka doesn’t really understand but he’s _fairly_ certain, given Aang’s context crumbs, it has something to do with being a person in disguise). Sweater Girl’s nine-inch acrylics flash in the dull yellow streetlight as she advances, pushing past Sokka, who’s only too glad to tip-toe over and take over her spot.

Snooze ya loose.

“I _know_ you did _not_ just accuse me of - of being an _off-brander_!”

Sokka’s so absorbed in the chaos he doesn’t notice Zuo-lin give him a once-over before cutting through the alley nearby.

* * *

“I’m telling you, the leaves were _right_ ,” Zuko says insistently, batting away Azula’s kabuki brush. He’s not even sure why she’s doing his makeup in the first place. He has makeup artists for that. Unless Azula added ‘Zuko’s makeup artist’ to her repertoire without him knowing - given that this is _Azula_ it’s safe to say the makeup artist is lying dead in a ditch somewhere, drained of their powers.

He wishes he was that makeup artist. Zuko eyes one of the rat-tail combs on the counter longingly. Maybe if he accidentally trips onto the pointy end…

“We already agreed you’re an idiot, Zuzu, no need to keep bringing it up.”

“I almost got _mobbed_ out there. They thought I was butting in line and they were going to beat my brains out onto the concrete. Then this cute guy read me the riot act - something about anchovies? I don’t even know.”

Azula pauses, pulling back to grin in a way that has his hackles rising. Oh no. Oh nononononono.

“Cute guy, huh?” she drawls, rubbing a bit of contour in roughly. “How _precious_. Maybe the leaves were right and it’s your heart that’s in imminent danger.”

“Yes, because, again, they were going to _mob me to death_. Probably saute my heart in soy sauce and sriracha and call it a day,” Zuko prattles on, hoping she derails with him. Azula means well about ten percent of the time, but the other ninety percent are those Zheng genes ensuring that peace will never be an option. If she finds out he’s got a _thing_ for a total stranger who _might_ be in the crowd, she can and will find a way to get that stranger on stage in a sick, twisted attempt at matchmaking.

“Uh-huh. Well, I did what I could to save your face without taking a scalpel to it. Begone.” Azula makes a shooing motion, and then bodily yanks him out of his chair when he stays put. She plops down in his vacated seat, kicking her legs up on the counter and clacking her Louboutins together to the beat of Taylor Swift’s _mirrorball._

“But what if-”

“I’m insulted that you think anything the universe _can_ do is worse than what I _will_ do if you don’t get your ass on stage and start singing right now. Tick tock, big brother.”

Zuko books it.

* * *

Safely squished between a wall/fence thing that sinks under the weight of the thousands of locks on it and a girl busy writing a math final on her laptop, propped on her knee, Sokka lets out a sigh of relief. Getting to the front of the line was easy once Sweater Girl and Opera Guy started trying to claw each other's eyes out. All he had to do was tap the shoulder of the person in front of him, point backwards, and say ‘holy shit, _worldstar!_ ’ and they were as good as gone. Aang will be deeply disappointed if he ever finds out. Toph will declare him a god.

He checks his phone for the hundredth time, just to confirm that the concert does, in fact, start at 8 am and it’s only 7:54 so maybe his brain cells can tell his heart and adrenaline cells to stop working overtime because he’s starting to get dizzy with anticipation. Sokka point blank refuses to become the guy they have to crowd-surf to the paramedics. 

Six minutes. Six minutes before he gets to see Zuko live. Six minutes before he ascends to a higher level of existence. Six minutes before every emotion he has - all twenty-three and a half of them - are put through the ringer and squeezed back into him, concentrated. 

Holy shit.

His phone pings abruptly. 

_Gaangarang_

_the bolder boulder: soooooo guess who saw katara getting her freak on in the chem lab_

_the bolder boulder: and by saw I mean I was with twinkle toes who told me_

_the bolder boulder: also someone come help twinkle toes he’s either in a coma or dead but I can’t tell cause blind_

“What the _fuck!_ ” Sokka screeches.

“Shut _up_ , I almost rounded wrong!” Math Chick yells back.

“Fuck off, my sister was - was - she - oh my _god_!”

_certified z*** stan: KATARA_

_certified z*** stan: KATARA I’M GONNA KILL YOU???_

_certified z*** stan: COMMIT A LITTLE HOMIE-CIDE. SISTERSIDE. SORORICIDE._

_certified z*** stan: KATARA????????????????_

* * *

The crowd explodes into deafening cheers as he steps out from behind the stage, nervously eyeing the setup. It’s a nice small venue compared to the two-thousand-ish capacity stadiums he’s used to, which means the chances of him getting sniped are fairly low. Doesn’t mean his guard is going to go any less down, no sir. If anything, it goes _up_ , demanding he turn around right now and hide in his room until the leaves start spitting out clouds or something equally banal.

Then he remembers Azula is hovering in the wings and dutifully struts up to the mic, trying his best not to throw up on the purple-headed girl squished up against the stage.

Okay. Okay. It’s time. Come hell or high water, this is it. No turning back now. 

* * *

_FUCKING TRAITOR: YOU HAVE GOT ZERO RIGHT TO JUDGE ME FOR MY TASTES WHEN YOU SOLD YOUR FUCKING PS4 AND STOOD OUT IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT TO BUY TICKETS FOR SOME FUCKING TEENY ANGST BOPPER_

_FUCKING TRAITOR: AND SOMEBODY CHANGE MY NAME BACK_

_certified z*** stan: I’LL CHANGE YOUR NAME BACK WHEN YOU TELL ME WHAT POSSESSED YOU TO DO THAT IN A CHEM LAB KATARA!!! A CHEMISTRY LAB!!!! IN FRONT OF THE CHEMICALS!!!_

Sokka’s so absorbed in chewing his sister out for getting it on by the fume hood that he misses the uproar of the crowd, deftly avoiding pumping fists and thrown panties as he furiously messages the group chat. 

It’s not that Katara’s not allowed to get her freak on with whoever because she’s her own person and whatnot; it’s that Katara’s not allowed to do that kinda shit in places that people can _see_ because then Sokka will inevitably find out and he’s done his level best to pretend his big sister is dating her textbooks and not _people_. If she’s dating _people_ then-

“ _I touch the fire-_ ”

 _Fuck_ the group chat. Panic grips his lungs, squeezing tight as he desperately smashes the camera app and hits record. 

“Wait! Start again, I wasn’t recording!”

* * *

“ _I touch the fire-_ ”

His voice cracks and with it goes his waning sanity. 

So this is how he dies. With broken runs and a milk-thick throat. Zhao was right. The tea leaves were right. Today was _destined_ to be his undoing and while he tries his best to fall into the familiar warmth of the void of ‘I don’t care’, dread bleeds into him instead, drowning him in its viscosity. 

Then, it happens.

“Wait! Start again, I wasn’t recording!”

A tether. A flash of light in the middle of a storm, anchoring him to safety. The first gasp for air after diving into the deep-end. A godsend.

Anchovy boy.

Zuko plays dumb. “Who said that? Somebody said stop, start again, they weren’t recording.”

Anchovy boy proudly waves the hand not holding his phone up in the air, on his tippy-toes. “Me! Start again! And make this shit _hurt_!”

“Okay.” he cracks a grin, near delirious with relief. Azula could march out right now and drag Anchovy Boy over and he’d hug her in thanks before kissing _him_ in thanks. 

“I hear you.”

Zuko takes a deep breath and starts.

“ _I touch the fire-_ ”

**Author's Note:**

> I edited this for two days and deleted and added so much and I feel like if I look at this any longer my eyes are going to bleed. I'm probably gonna catch a mistake in a week and cry about it. oh well.
> 
> please review thank bye <3


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